


Quarantine

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BrOT4, Fear of Death, Friendship, Gen, Illnesses, Shippy Gen, Sickfic, quarantined
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accidentally exposed to victims of a plague, the four musketeers are consigned to a week in quarantine. But will the enforced proximity harm their friendship, and could they actually be infected?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quarantine

"This is stupid." Porthos folded his arms and glared at the others mutinously. "We're not sick."

"Shut up and take your clothes off," Aramis told him cheerfully.

"Not the first time he's said _that_ ," murmured d'Artagnan, and then squawked indignantly as Aramis pushed him into the wicker linen basket.

"We do as we're told," Athos said quietly, removing his shirt without fuss and dropping it into the basket, narrowly missing d'Artagnan as he scrambled out. "I sincerely hope you're right and we're not infected, but the fact remains we were in there for a long time. Would you risk us being carriers? Would you risk some innocent person getting sick because you were too impatient to spend a couple of days in isolation?"

Porthos muttered something inaudible, but he started stripping without further complaint and soon all four of them were stark naked and shivering slightly. 

There was a pile of folded linen on a side table, and Aramis shook out the garments, holding them up for inspection with an ironic smile. 

"Nightshirts. One size fits all, by the looks of things." 

"What?" Porthos snatched one and stared at it. "No way. No way am I wearing this."

"Suit yourself," Athos told him, pulling one on over his head. "But three days without anything on will get a mite chilly. Those stone walls look cold."

Grumbling, Porthos dragged one over his head, promptly getting tangled in the lace around the neck and stamping about the room blinded and naked from the waist down.

"It's like being haunted by a really obscene ghost," said d'Artagnan, almost crying with laughter.

Aramis came to Porthos' rescue and straightened out the nightshirt, smoothing it down and making soothing noises. When everyone had put one on, they all looked at each other assessingly. 

D'Artagnan's was slightly too loose, and he held out the sides with a sigh. "Room for two in here."

Athos and Aramis had gotten away with it the best, as while the garments were unflattering, they at least almost fitted. Porthos' though only came to his knees, and the sleeves ended well above his wrists. 

One look at his face was enough to start d'Artagnan laughing again, and Porthos was on the verge of taking a swipe at him when the outer door opened and a man and a woman came in. Both were masked by scarves tied over their faces, and the four stared at them uneasily, all levity gone as the potential seriousness of their situation was brought home.

The woman took hold of the linen basket with all their clothes in and went out again, closing the door firmly behind her.

"She's going to wash them, right?" Porthos asked warily. 

The newcomer shook his head. "Yvette is taking them to be burned."

"What?" Porthos started forward furiously and both Athos and Aramis shot out a hand to hold him back. At their touch he subsided, although if looks could kill the man would have dropped dead at their feet. To have lost his prized coat and favourite bandana was briefly of more import than the idea he might have some form of plague.

"Who are you?" Athos asked.

"My name is Lefevre, I am a doctor here."

"We're not sick," Aramis said firmly.

"Perhaps not." Lefevre gave a little laugh that all of them instantly distrusted. "But we need to make sure. You are therefore our honoured guests."

"How long do we have to stay here?" Athos asked, before anyone else could interject with anything ruder.

"Not long. A week, say."

"A week!" Porthos roared, and it was to the doctor's credit that he didn't look in the slightest perturbed.

"A week, yes, that is correct. The symptoms should have shown themselves by then."

"There won't be any symptoms," d'Artagnan said, more for his own comfort than anything else. "We're fine."

"Then think of this as a short holiday," Lefevre gave them a rather insincere bow, and gestured to the door behind them. "Now, if you wouldn't mind - your quarters for the next few days."

They filed obediently through into the next chamber. It was a large-ish room, with bare floorboards and two barred windows. It held four narrow beds, a nightstand with basin and pitcher, four hard chairs, a scrubbed wooden table and a chest.

Before any of them could comment on the room's stark and unwelcoming appearance, the door closed unexpectedly behind them and they whirled round. 

Athos walked quickly back and tried it, rattling the handle. 

"Locked," he sighed. 

"Are you telling me we're prisoners?" Porthos demanded incredulously.

Athos shrugged. "We have no reason to believe they won't let us out at the end of the week. We are here voluntarily, remember."

"If by voluntarily you mean because Treville ordered us, then yes," Aramis put in dryly. He chose a bed and tested its give with a considering hand before sitting down, swinging his legs up and leaning back with his hands behind his head. "Might as well make the best of it," he said to Porthos' silent look of disgust.

"Easy for you to say," Porthos complained. "You don't look like a badly dressed baby doll."

"Personally I think it suits you," Aramis smirked. "You have very shapely knees."

"Why are there bars on the windows?" d'Artagnan asked, pressing his face up against them and trying to look down into the yard.

"This is a secure hospital, when they're not using it for isolation purposes," Athos told him.

"A nuthouse," Aramis clarified, grinning. "So mind they don't keep you in."

D'Artagnan glowered at him. "Spending a week shut in with you three is bound to send me loopy, I might choose to stay."

Athos took possession of the bed closest to the wall, and Porthos immediately bagged the bed between him and Aramis. This left d'Artagnan with the bed nearest the window, which he was pleased with until he realised the thin glass was letting in a howling draught.

"Oh, great." He pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around his legs before sitting down again. "So now what?"

Athos sighed. "Now, we wait." 

\--

It had started off as an unremarkable mission. A small fort a day and a half's ride out of Paris had been out of communication for nearly two weeks, and Treville had dispatched them to see what was wrong. It wasn't in a troubled area and none of them were expecting anything other than having to deliver a reprimand for neglect of duty. The weather was cold and bright, and they'd enjoyed the journey out, taking their time and appreciating the scenery as they rose steadily into the hills.

As they approached the fort, they'd found the gates open and welcoming. Athos though, had reined in and paused for a moment, staring thoughtfully up at the deserted battlements. 

"Where is everybody?"

"Having lunch?" suggested d'Artagnan, whose stomach was telling him it was high time they thought about something to eat.

"Leaving the gate unattended? I'll have something to say about that if they are," Athos muttered. He shook his head. "This feels wrong. Be on your guard." 

They rode slowly under the gateway arch, alert for trouble. The only sound was the faint echo of the horses' hooves on the cobbles, and as they moved further in the feeling of unease intensified.

Dismounting in the courtyard no-one came out to greet them, and the building ranges to each side presented blank, empty windows. To one end was an expanse of freshly turned earth and Aramis walked over for a closer inspection.

"Is it me, or does this look disturbingly like a mass grave to anyone else?"

"Should we dig?" Porthos asked, sounding less than enthusiastic.

"Let's have a look round first," Athos said. "Raiders wouldn't have stopped to bury them, and they didn't bury themselves."

They entered through a door in the main keep and found themselves in an armoury. Swords and pistols were ranged in well-kept ranks, and racks of ammunition were neatly stocked.

"Well they didn't go down fighting," Porthos muttered.

"If they'd been attacked, surely the raiders would have cleaned this lot out?" Aramis said. "Same goes if they just deserted for some reason. They'd have taken the equipment with them, it doesn't make sense."

"Um - guys?" D'Artagnan had gone up a flight of steps at far the end of the room, and his voice floated down to them sounding more uncertain than they'd ever heard it. "You need to see this. They didn't desert their posts. They're - they're still here."

Exchanging a worried look they ran up the stairs and found themselves at the end of a dining hall. Wooden tables and benches were set out down the length of it - and not all of them were empty. A handful of figures in military uniforms were slumped over the tables, as if they'd died where they sat. 

"Was it poison?" Porthos wondered. "Did they kill all the others and do themselves in in a fit of remorse?"

Athos walked over to the nearest corpse occupying a chair at the head of the table and took hold of its shoulder, lifting it back in the seat. As soon as the face was revealed he stepped away hastily with a sharp intake of breath. The grey flesh was pitted and marked with a rash of sores and blemishes that extended all over the man's face and down his neck.

"Plague," Porthos hissed. 

They all backed slowly away from the bodies at the table.

"We need to get out of here," d'Artagnan said tightly.

"What if they're not all dead?" Aramis said. "There might still be someone left alive that needs our help. We should really check."

They eyed each other, full of misgivings. Finally Athos set his shoulders. "Get out, the lot of you. I'll do a walk-through. Meet you outside."

Aramis shook his head. "I was the one that said we should look. I'll do it."

Porthos rolled his eyes. "So we split up, take a chunk each. It'll reduce the length of time any one person has to be inside."

"I can't ask you to do this," Athos said, and Porthos snorted. 

"You're not." 

"D'Artagnan, why don't you take the horses out and wait - "

"If you think I'm abandoning you lot, you've got another think coming," d'Artagnan said indignantly, stung out of his reluctance to stay a moment longer. 

Athos hid a smile. "Very well. Then I suggest we take a range each. Don't be long about it, and try not to touch anything. Yell if you find anyone alive."

\--

They hadn't. A few more corpses had come to light in the dormitories but not a single living soul was revealed in the whole of the fort. Aramis had tentatively suggested a decent burial, but hadn't objected when Athos overruled him and ordered them not to be touched. 

When they left they hauled the gate closed and chained it locked shut, and as soon as they reached the first stream on the path home they'd dismounted and hastily washed themselves, trying to play down the skin crawling sense of fear each man felt.

The ride back to Paris had been a sombre one. The fort had held a complement of over twenty men, and to know they had all died within days of each other, and so hideously, was enough to leave them silent and troubled.

It was reporting their findings that had resulted in them being immediately ordered into this protective quarantine, Treville being unwilling to risk the chance they'd brought it back with them. It had been two days since their grisly discovery and no-one was exhibiting any signs of being ill, but as no-one could swear to exactly what the malady had been or how quickly it might develop, they were resigned for the moment to their captivity.

\--

The afternoon passed equably enough; they were used to spending most of the time in each other's company in any case. The light was fading from the sky as the early winter's night drew on, when there was a rattle at the door and it was opened to reveal a masked Yvette carrying a tray.

"Your supper," she said, handing the tray to Aramis, who'd immediately leaped up to assist her. "And some fuel for the fire." She reached back and hauled a sack into the room. "You'll get an allocation each day."

"That won't last long," Porthos said dubiously, looking at the meagre pile of logs and kindling.

"Do we look like we're made of money? There's a lot of rooms here," she told him tartly. "Would you have someone else go without?"

"Is it really necessary to lock the door?" Athos asked, as she backed out again. "We're here of our own free will."

"Rules is rules. And people get mighty odd in the throes of infection. Safer for all concerned if you're shut in," Yvette said firmly, closing the door and locking it loudly and pointedly.

"Well that was cheerful," Porthos grumbled. He'd carried the sack over to the small grate, and was staring at it gloomily. "Do we light it now, or later?"

"Later," Athos said. "Like you say it won't last long. The later we leave it, the room should still be warmish to sleep in."

"If you're depressed with the fuel, wait till you see what's for dinner," Aramis told Porthos, setting the tray on the table.

D'Artagnan, who'd eagerly pulled up a chair, stared dismally at the uninviting bowl of possibly-stew in front of him. "That's revolting."

"Eat it anyway," Athos advised, taking the seat next to him. "Keep your strength up."

"Or give it to me," Porthos grinned. "I've eaten worse." He took a mouthful, and made a face. "Although I can't remember when."

The evening crawled by with increasingly painful tedium and they finally lit the fire for sheer want of something to do. They had discovered in the chest a number of items including a battered pack of cards and a set of dice, which caused momentary elation until Aramis had pointed out they'd probably been used by whoever had been sequestered in here last, after which nobody fancied touching them again. 

As soon as all the wood was gone they retired to bed, on the grounds the longer they slept, the quicker the time would pass.

In the morning the room was freezing again and everyone was considerably grumpier than they'd been the day before. There was a listless reluctance to get out of bed, even to use the chamberpots which were their only recourse to sanitation. 

Sitting up huddled under his blanket, d'Artagnan sneezed, and gradually noticed the others were all looking at him. "What?"

"You, er. Feeling alright?" Porthos asked casually.

"What? Oh, for - " D'Artagnan glared at them. "I'm not ill! Or if I am, it's only a chill from sleeping under this bloody window."

The arrival of food, such as it was, spurred them to at least get up, after which Porthos hit on the idea of making everyone run through a set of training exercises. The awkwardness of moving effectively in the constricting nightshirts was outweighed by the laughter it promoted as more than one of them fell over trying to effect a decent lunge, and both the exercise and warmth it generated made everyone feel better for a while.

Gradually though, their high spirits died away again as the enforced inactivity grated on all of them.

It should have been fine. They were well enough accustomed to spending their idle hours together out of choice, but that was generally with numerous flagons of wine on hand to lubricate the sharing of tall stories, not to mention the knowledge that any of them was free to get up and walk out at any point. Being forcibly contained, not to mention labouring under the threat of plague, was enough to make them all edgy and irritable.

Athos felt it perhaps the worst of all. There was a solitary side to his nature, and while he normally took great pleasure in and comfort from the proximity of his friends, there was a certain point where he preferred to appreciate them in the abstract form, from the privacy and peace of his own lodgings. 

He was also feeling increasingly rough, with a persistent headache he put down to the fact he needed a drink. The watered wine they'd been given with their meals was barely enough to go round, and hardly of a strength suitable to bolster the spirits.

By the second evening they were all snappish. Porthos made a valiant attempt at getting everyone to participate in another round of exercises, but was met with three variants of exactly where he could stick his suggestion. 

D'Artagnan, who'd been driven through boredom to run the risk of latent plague, leprosy or whatever else the previous incumbents might have suffered from, was by this point sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing with the dice.

Aramis was perched on the end of d'Artagnan's bed and watching the comings and goings down below in the yard, and whistling to himself in an irritatingly piercing fashion.

"Aramis! Stop that bloody racket!" d'Artagnan yelled when he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Just trying to keep my spirits up."

"You're driving me insane! What with you whistling, Athos sulking and Porthos thumping about like a carthorse I'm on the verge of trying to smother myself with my own blanket."

"I am not sulking," Athos muttered, but given that he was lying on his bed with his back to them, it rather undermined his point.

"You're always bloody sulking, how are we supposed to tell the difference?" Aramis said under his breath, although quite loudly enough for everyone to hear him.

Athos visibly tensed, but didn't look round or reply. Porthos frowned, unsettled by the atmosphere, and went to sit with d'Artagnan. "Game of cards?" he suggested hopefully.

"Yeah, why not. Let's face it, death'd be a merciful release at this point. Aramis, you in?"

Aramis sighed and nodded. "Go on then."

"Athos?" D'Artagnan invited, but Athos gave no indication he'd heard, and Aramis snorted.

"Too good for us?" he called across. Athos' only response was to pull the blanket over his head. 

Several raucous hands later, the three of them were in marginally better tempers, until Aramis suggested lighting the fire with the wood that had been brought in that morning.

"Athos said we should wait," d'Artagnan objected awkwardly. It was still early evening, and they'd learnt yesterday that it would only give a couple of hours' warmth at most. 

"Well I don't see Athos deigning to take part in this conversation, do you?" Aramis shot back. Athos hadn't moved or spoken in the hour or so they'd been playing, but no one was entirely sure if he was asleep or not.

He certainly gave no reaction to the current conversation, and Aramis and Porthos lit the fire, ignoring d'Artagnan's clear discomfort. They were both used to Athos' moods, and entirely willing to go against his wishes on trivial matters if they thought otherwise, trusting that no bad feeling would ever last between them.

Another hour's play and Yvette arrived at the door with their supper. Porthos carried it over to their place by the hearth, and looked over at Athos, who still hadn't moved.

"Supper's ready?" Porthos called hopefully.

"He knows perfectly well it's here, don't pander to him," Aramis snapped irritably. Porthos ignored him and went over to sit carefully on the edge of the bed. This close he could tell Athos was far too tense to be asleep.

"Food's here," Porthos said quietly. "Will you join us?"

After a second's hesitation Athos turned slightly, letting the blanket slip away and looking up at Porthos. He looked - blank, Porthos thought. Shut in. He smiled down at him.

"We could save you some," he offered. "But for once it smells quite good. Have some while it's hot?" 

Athos looked like he was wavering, as if he wanted to say yes, but was quite capable of saying no just to spite himself. Porthos reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "Come on," he coaxed. "Come and eat with us."

"Alright." Athos sighed and sat up, and Porthos grinned approvingly at him. 

As they moved to join the others over by the fire Aramis opened his mouth to say something scathing, and Porthos jabbed a finger at him.

"Don't. Just - don't."

Aramis subsided again, and Athos took a seat on the far side of the fire with a wary look at him.

"We lit the fire," d'Artagnan blurted needlessly, half as apology and half for something to say to break the silence. He'd never seen any of the three of them at odds with each other before, not like this, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. It felt like his world was out of kilter.

To his relief Athos gave him a small smile, and nodded. "It's very cosy," he said, and d'Artagnan smiled back gratefully.

"Don't worry," Porthos murmured, nudging d'Artagnan with his elbow. "Soon as we're out of here, everyone'll be friends again." He'd been close to Athos and Aramis long enough to know any passing disagreement would be just that, and that apologies were never needed between the three of them. D'Artagnan, on the other hand, hadn't been around long enough to see them all this cross with each other before, and Porthos realised from the outside it probably looked worse than it was. 

With an unspoken truce in place, the rest of the evening passed more comfortably, and although Athos still declined to join in with their everlasting card game, he did at least sit with them until the fire died out and they were all forced into their beds by the cold.

\--

Athos opened his eyes the next morning to hear Porthos yawning and complaining loudly from the next bed. 

"God! We're still in captivity, I'd hoped it was all a dream."

"I can think of better things to dream of," d'Artagnan called out, and Aramis snorted.

"Careful, I bet you won't get any clean sheets out of them before we leave here."

There was laughter, and creaking of bed frames, splashing of water from the pitcher and the sound of someone having a piss.

Athos curled in on himself, trying to ignore the twin facts that his headache was worse, and that his throat was all needles. He lay there for a minute, shivering, then gathered his courage and sat up. This wasn't something he could keep to himself.

"Morning," Porthos said cheerfully, seeing him emerge from the folds of the blanket. He took in Athos' flushed and tense face, and frowned. "You alright?"

Athos shook his head, and Porthos came over. "What is it?"

"Do I feel hot to you?" Athos asked quietly, and winced as it came out as a hoarse rasp. "No, don't touch me with your bare hand," he added quickly, as Porthos reached out.

Frown deepening, Porthos pulled the sleeve of his nightshirt down and laid his covered palm on Athos' forehead. 

"You're burning up," he muttered. 

Athos shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "I feel cold. And my throat is like broken glass."

"Let me see." Aramis had come over to join them, looking anxious. Athos tilted his head back and let Aramis peer into his open mouth.

"Swollen," Aramis sighed. "And covered in little white spots."

Athos recoiled from both of them until he hit the wall with a jolt. "You'd best stay back," he muttered. "Both of you." 

"It could just be a fever," Aramis said, shaking his head. "It doesn't mean it's - " he broke off uncomfortably.

"Plague," Athos finished for him flatly. "It doesn't mean it isn't either. We have no way of knowing what the first symptoms were. On account of it having killed everyone that could have told us."

"What do we do?" Porthos asked, looking between them helplessly. "There must be something we can do. We're in a hospital aren't we, we need a doctor. Let's get Lefevre back in here."

Athos wrapped his arms around himself and huddled back against the wall. "Firstly you need to get them to put me in a separate room," he said. "There's no reason to suppose we've all been infected. I was the only one to touch one of the corpses."

Porthos shook his head angrily. "Stop talking like that, we don't know that's what it is."

Aramis laid a calming hand on his arm. "Athos is right, the safest thing to do is to assume the worst. Pray for the best, but - it is possible that right now Athos is the only one of us carrying it."

They banged on the door until Yvette appeared, and explained the situation to her. She disappeared again, and was gone for a long time. Further banging attracted no attention, and it was nearly two hours before anyone came. When they did, it was Lefevre, and he refused point blank to come into the room and examine Athos.

"He is in the best place," was all he would say.

"Who for?" Porthos demanded. "Athos is sick, he needs help."

"For the city," said Lefevre, coldly. 

When it became obvious that Lefevre was on the point of leaving again, Athos hauled himself off the bed and threw himself at the door, shocked by how weak his legs already seemed. 

"You have to put me in a separate room," he shouted, gripping the barred grille in the door to keep himself upright as much as with frustration. "This is an isolation hospital isn't it? So isolate me."

Lefevre looked at him blankly. "There are no other rooms free. Regrettably, you must all take your chances."

Athos looked horrified. "The rest of them are showing no symptoms, let them out then, for God's sake, before it's too late."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Now please stop causing a disturbance, or I will be forced to have you restrained."

He left, and Athos turned slowly back to the others, face pale under the blush of his growing fever.

"What do we do?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos raised his head to look at him, as if in a daze. "Kill me," he whispered.

"What?" Aramis glared at him. "What the devil are you on about?"

"It's the only way," Athos said, shuddering now as he fought to keep standing upright. "Kill me, one of you, or give me the means to do away with myself, before it develops, before any of you catch it. They'll at least take away my body, they'll have to do that." 

The words were spilling out of him, as close to panic as they'd ever seen him, until Porthos stepped up, seized Athos firmly by the shoulders and shook him.

"Athos, get a hold of yourself. This isn't like you. Nobody's doing away with anybody, for all we know this is just an ordinary fever."

"Don't - don't touch me," Athos protested, trying to wriggle out of Porthos' grasp.

Seeing it was upsetting him Porthos let him go with a sigh, and Athos fled back to his bed in the corner.

The rest of them sat at the table, conferring in low voices on what could be done and coming up empty. There was nothing they _could_ do but wait it out and hope for the best.

Porthos was sitting facing Athos' bed, and had been keeping a desultory eye on him in case he took it into his head to do anything silly. Athos though had slumped in a defeated huddle against the wall, as far as he could get from everyone else, and hardly moved for an hour.

With a sudden burst of activity that made d'Artagnan jump, Porthos stood up, his chair scraping back on the floor and marched over to throw himself down next to Athos on the bed.

"Go away," Athos protested, trying feebly to fend him off as Porthos put an arm round him.

"No." Porthos glared at him. "I can't watch you sit here all alone thinking you're dying. I just can't."

Athos glared back at him, but Porthos was resolute and after a silent battle of wills Athos finally slumped against him with a shaking sigh of surrender. Porthos settled them both comfortably and hugged him close.

"You'd better not catch this," Athos muttered. "If you dare catch this I'll never forgive you."

Porthos gave a low laugh. "If you can just restrain yourself from kissing me, I'm sure all will be well." 

To his gratification this prompted a splutter of stifled laughter, and Porthos smiled. "It'll be okay," he murmured. "I promise. We'll all be okay."

"You have no way of knowing that," Athos objected sleepily, but he was finally relaxing into Porthos' determined embrace with a grateful exhaustion.

For the next few hours Athos dozed fitfully under Porthos' watchful gaze, his sleep broken by fits of coughing. 

Yvette brought them the day's food and fuel, but was accompanied by two heavyset men, and ordered them all back from the door before she would open it. 

"They think we'll try and break out," d’Artagnan muttered, half insulted and half annoyed that it hadn't actually occurred to him. Not that he had any intention of abandoning Athos, but he agreed with the others that Athos needed more help than he was getting, whatever was wrong with him.

Athos woke from troubled dreams and looked around disorientedly, confused to find himself lying in Porthos' lap. He stifled a cough, shoulders shaking, and felt Porthos rub his back gently.

"Cough if you need to," Porthos said quietly. "If I'm getting it, I'm getting it."

Athos struggled to sit up as a fresh fit took him and he doubled over with the force of it. 

"How's he doing?" Aramis asked, crouching by the bed.

"Oh, you've deigned to come over at last have you?" Porthos grumbled.

"You think he'll be somehow happier if we all catch it?" Aramis retorted. "Here." He handed Porthos a basin of water and a towel, and Porthos settled the half-delirious Athos back against the pillows and cleaned the sweat from his face.

"He doesn't sound good," said d'Artagnan, standing at a nervous remove, but closer than he had been. Athos' cough was a hollow wheezing rattle in his chest, that made them all feel breathless just to listen to it.

"No, he doesn't." Aramis straightened up. "On the other hand, I've heard that cough a lot this spring. I don't think it's necessarily plague."

"Well that's good!" d'Artagnan said, looking hopeful. "Isn't it?"

"What he's not telling you is that the cough often turns out to be just as much of a killer," said Athos weakly.

"Shush you," Porthos chided. "I thought you were asleep again."

"Seems a shame to waste my last hours," Athos muttered with a certain ghoulish amusement.

"You're not dying. I won't let you."

"You may not have a choice in the matter."

Porthos grunted. "In that case, if you die, can I have your sword?"

This prompted a huff of laughter than in turn triggered a fit of coughing, and Porthos was immediately contrite.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to set you off."

Athos shook his head, wheezing. "Don't worry about it. You're right, I was being morbid."

"This is all my fault," Aramis sighed suddenly, sinking onto a chair and putting his head in his hands.

"How do you work that out?" Athos asked, seeing that Porthos and d'Artagnan looked as confused by this outburst as he did.

"I insisted we stay and look for survivors," Aramis said wretchedly. "If we'd just left straight away - maybe this wouldn't be happening." 

Athos frowned. "D'Artagnan, slap him would you, I can't reach. You didn't insist," he said to Aramis. "And even if you had I could have overruled you. I'd already touched one of the dead bodies by that point in any case."

"And we still don't know that this is plague," Porthos pointed out stubbornly. "I thought we were going with pig-ordinary fever?"

"How do you feel?" Aramis asked. Athos was clearly still running a temperature and coughing fit to rupture something every five minutes. 

"Like death," said Athos with a rueful smile. "Which doesn't help." 

"Is there any rash?" Aramis persisted. "The b- the others," he said, faltering over the word _bodies_ , "they were covered in sores and spots."

Athos peered down the front of his nightshirt. "Not that I can see."

"Let's have a proper look. Come over into the lamplight," said Porthos, and despite his protests Athos was helped out of bed and stripped of his nightshirt. He stood trying not to catch anyone's eyes as every shivering inch of him was scrutinised.

"Looks fine to me." Porthos slapped him on the bare arse and handed him his nightshirt. "Never knew you had a birthmark there though."

"I did," said Aramis, and sniggered.

"Oh, fuck off," said Athos good-temperedly, struggling back into the nightshirt. Despite the teasing he felt relieved at the result, and lay back down with a tiny thread of fresh hope in his heart.

\--

Porthos woke the next morning to find d'Artagnan sitting on the edge of Athos' bed, holding a cool cloth to his forehead. Athos was apparently still asleep, although visibly restless.

D'Artagnan saw Porthos looking at him, and blushed. "He was crying out in his sleep," d'Artagnan explained. 

"You should have woken me," Porthos scolded softly, climbing out of bed and coming over. D'Artagnan shook his head, looking defiant and protective and Porthos smiled at him.

D'Artagnan set the cloth back in the bowl and stood up. "Is he going to die?" he asked uncertainly.

"No. Of course not. Don't even think it," Porthos said immediately, with a lot more confidence than he felt. He wrapped his arms round d'Artagnan and gave him a comforting hug which d'Artagnan returned gratefully before letting go with an embarrassed smile.

\--

"I've been thinking," said d'Artagnan a while later, when Aramis had woken too and the three of them were sitting in a huddle to share their blankets. "What if we did break out?"

"To what purpose?" Aramis asked tiredly. "I rather think the cards have been dealt already as to whether we're infected or not."

D’Artagnan looked cross that Aramis had assumed he was being selfish. "I meant for Athos. He needs better care. Come on, the three of us could take those two toughs, easily."

"And what of Yvette?" Aramis asked. "Would you have us push her down the stairs, or merely tie her up?"

"No! She's only small, are you telling me you couldn't manage her?"

"She spends her life dealing with the mentally unsound," Aramis said. "I'd bet you any money you like she's a lot stronger than she looks. We'd have to restrain her."

"Nobody's restraining anyone," came a voice from behind them, and they looked round to find Athos had woken up. "Need I remind you that this is exactly the reason we are here, and voluntarily at that?"

"I was just thinking that we could look after you better in your own home," d'Artagnan said, flushing red.

"And how many people would you carry me past in the street to get me there?" Athos enquired. "Would you perhaps consider my landlady collateral damage? No, Lefevre has a point, however heavy handed his methods. If this is plague we can’t risk taking it into the city. And if it is, then there is little that can be done for me in any case," he added soberly.

"And if it's just sickness?" Porthos said. "D'Artagnan's got a point, you'd do better with a warmer room, better food, fresh bedclothes."

"As we have no way of telling, there is no point in having the discussion," Athos pointed out. "If it is, then I may recover. Either way, I may not." He broke off with a fit of coughing, and d’Artagnan rushed to pour him some water.

"Thank you." Athos took it with an unsteady hand and drank thirstily. He looked round at their anxious faces, and smiled sadly. "Is it terribly selfish of me to be glad I am not walled up alone after all?" he murmured.

D'Artagnan dropped to the bed and clasped Athos' free hand emotionally.

"You shouldn't touch me," Athos chided, trying to gently pull away.

"He's been mopping your brow half the night," Porthos pointed out with a grin. "Might as well let him be."

Athos parted his lips in surprise, and then gave d'Artagnan a look of admonishment. D'Artagnan shrugged unrepentantly and Athos smiled, setting down the beaker of water and taking d'Artagnan's hand in both of his own.

"Thank you," Athos said. "All of you. And I'm sorry."

"As you've hardly become ill on purpose I can't see how you have much to apologise for," said Aramis. 

"Leaving you, perhaps," said Athos under his breath.

"Don't you dare say that!" It was Porthos' turn to sink down on the bed, and he seized Athos in a bear hug. "You're not bloody going anywhere."

"At this rate I'm starting to think they intend to starve us all to death anyway," Aramis mused, as Athos patiently tried to extricate himself from his two friends. "They've normally brought us some food by this time."

"How can you think of food at a time like this!" d'Artagnan snapped.

"I'm hungry." Aramis shrugged. "Aren't you?"

"Well. Yes. But - " he looked conflicted, and then even more so when it was Athos that patted him reassuringly on the hand. 

D'Artagnan looked from Athos to Aramis and then Porthos, and sighed defeatedly.

"What's wrong?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Sometimes I think I'm getting a handle on you three, and then other times it's like you're speaking a foreign language to each other without even ever saying anything."

Porthos ruffled his hair. "You'll pick it up," he grinned. "Don't be so impatient."

"Give it time," Athos added quietly. "You forget, we've known each other for years."

"It's mostly just trust," offered Aramis. "Trust that we will accept each other for who we are, regardless of circumstance. Trust that we'll always be there for one another." He smiled, suddenly. "And that includes you, now."

D'Artagnan felt abruptly too choked up to speak, but was saved from having to answer by a banging on the door and Yvette's loud demand that they all stay back.

When the door was pushed open, to the amazement of all those watching she brought in a tray laden with food, and the two guards at her side carried in an enormous sack of firewood and two bottles of wine.

"I thought you couldn't spare this amount of stuff," said Porthos, staring in astonishment at it all.

"I do hope this doesn't mean half your other patients have died," added Aramis, setting Athos off coughing again as he tried to swallow down the inappropriate urge to laugh.

"You have a sponsor," said Yvette, making a hasty retreat to the door.

"A sponsor? Who?" Porthos demanded, but she gave a dismissive one shouldered shrug. "A military gentleman." 

Yvette banged the door shut and locked it again, and they all stared at the things she'd left. As well as a pot of hot porridge and a mound of fresh rolls there was a steaming jug of coffee and a plate of fresh fruit, besides two good bottles of wine and enough logs to keep the fire going all day.

"Treville," said Aramis finally. "It has to be Treville. No one else knows we're here, for a start."

"He must have come to see how we were getting on," Porthos theorised. "And if they told him Athos was sick and locked away on thin stew and water - " He glanced over at the bed and grinned. "I'm amazed we didn't hear him yelling from all the way up here."

"I'm glad my malady could be of some benefit," said Athos dryly. "Is that wine I can see?"

"Feeling better are we?" Aramis smirked. "You can have some hot food first in that case."

\--

" _Are_ you feeling any better?" Porthos asked later, as he settled Athos back into bed after helping him relieve himself. Athos shook his head slightly, and Porthos frowned. "Worse?"

Athos hesitated, then nodded. 

"Why didn't you say?" Porthos chided, rubbing his back.

"I'm fine," Athos muttered, despite having just indicated exactly the opposite.

"Are you?" Porthos sighed. "You know, if it was me, or Aramis, we'd probably have been pleading for sympathy by now, but you - " he gave a tired laugh. "Even when you're at rock bottom you won't ask for comfort, will you? It's not a weakness you know."

Athos gave him a tight smile, and Porthos stretched his arms out. "Come here." He didn't wait for Athos to reply, but wrapped him in his arms and held him. The fact that Athos didn't pull away but just rested against him quietly, told Porthos all he needed to know about how bad Athos was currently feeling. "It'll be okay," he whispered. 

After a moment Athos looked up at him. "Porthos - if I die - "

"You're not going to," Porthos interrupted firmly.

"We're all going to one day," Athos couldn't help pointing out.

"Not yet though, eh?" Porthos shook his head and squeezed him tighter. "Not yet."

\--

Aramis woke early the next morning, first light just creeping through the window. 

"Aramis."

He looked round in surprise and saw that Athos too was awake. He climbed out of bed and came over.

"Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

Athos sat up with some difficulty and nodded. "I need to ask something of you."

Frowning, Aramis sat on the side of the bed and waited for him to continue.

"If I die - "

"You're not going to."

"Let me finish." Athos gave him a look of faintly amused frustration. "I tried to say this to Porthos last night, but he won't even countenance the possibility of me expiring, so I gave up."

"Sorry. Go on," Aramis nodded.

Athos took a moment to muster his thoughts. "If I die - if I do - Treville has a copy of my will."

Aramis frowned, but didn't interrupt, as Athos clearly hadn't finished.

"I've meant for some time to update it, but I never got round to it. At the moment it is divided equally between yourself and Porthos, but - I would also like something to go to d'Artagnan." Athos spoke in a low voice, glancing across the room to make sure the others were still asleep.

Aramis took Athos' hand in his. "In a few days you'll be out of here and can alter it yourself," he said softly.

"But if I'm not?" Athos persisted, and Aramis nodded.

"We'll see he gets an equal share. Of course we will. And - " he frowned. "Thank you seems somehow the wrong thing to say."

Athos smiled faintly. "Who else was I going to leave it to?"

Aramis gave a quiet laugh. "For that matter mine is split between you and Porthos. And I don't know, but I suspect Porthos' is much the same." He looked over at the snoring mound of blanket that hid d'Artagnan and smiled. "D'Artagnan, I am sure is much too young to have considered having one drawn up."

"As it should be." Athos looked down at where Aramis was still holding his hand and shook his head. "And you were being so sensible about not touching me," he sighed.

Aramis snorted. "We are all of us in God's hands, now, I suspect."

\--

The arrival of Yvette later that morning heralded another surprise, as along with the food and the fuel, her companions carried in a trunk. Examination of this once they'd gone revealed that it was full of clothes - and not just any clothes, but their clothes, someone clearly having visited their lodgings and collected a fresh set for each of them.

"Do you think Treville would mind terribly if I kissed him?" Aramis wondered, holding up a shirt with a look of wonder normally reserved for miracles and lovers.

"He will if you've got plague," Athos called over from his bed, and Aramis gave him a rude gesture.

Porthos was already standing stark naked in the middle of the room, having discarded his ill-fitting nightshirt as soon as he was able to pull it off over his head, which proved just as difficult as getting it on in the first place. He was soon clad in breeches and shirt and jerkin, and beaming fit to burst.

"Here, these must be yours." D'Artagnan carried a pile of clothing over to Athos, amongst them to his grateful surprise, a fresh nightshirt. 

"There's another blanket too," said Aramis, pulling the folds of thick wool out of the bottom of the trunk and promptly spreading it out over Athos' bed.

D'Artagnan was sitting on his own bed and in the middle of pulling on his breeches when he froze. "Um. Guys?" he called nervously. "Could you - could you have a look at something for me?"

"As long as it's not your pizzle," grinned Porthos, but his smile faded when he saw the frightened expression on d'Artagnan's face. "What is it?"

Wordlessly, D’Artagnan stretched out his leg. Clustered near his ankle were three bright red spots.

Aramis bent over him, peering closely while being careful not to touch. Porthos, and Athos behind him, waited tensely for his diagnosis.

Finally Aramis straightened up. "Flea bites," he announced. D'Artagnan flopped back onto the bed with a groan of relief, and Aramis patted him on the knee. "Probably in the mattress. Nothing to worry about."

"I thought I was a goner," d'Artagnan said weakly, then clapped his hand over his mouth in horror.

Athos snorted. "It's a good thing I'm not sensitive," he said dryly, and d'Artagnan rolled over to look at him and gave him a sheepish smile of abject apology. 

Porthos was sharing out the tray of food, and as they settled down to eat, the mood was more cheerful than it had been for some time. The only cloud was Athos' clearly still deteriorating condition, and having managed only a little food he slipped back into a restless sleep. 

"I wish his fever would break," Aramis sighed. "Even if this is something other than plague it's still wringing him out."

"None of us seem to have caught it?" d'Artagnan ventured, and Porthos promptly slapped him round the back of the head.

"Don't tempt fate. I'd have thought you'd learnt your lesson."

Aramis shook his head. "He has a point. Whatever killed those men at the fort seems to have acted quickly - they were all dead before they could even send for help. But it's been days now, and none of us seem affected. I'm inclined to start believing that whatever Athos is stricken with, it's not the same thing."

"Which maybe helps us, but not him," Porthos sighed.

"Indeed."

For the rest of the day they watched and worried, as Athos went from bad to worse. Up to now he'd been weak but relatively lucid, sleeping often but fully able to join in with their conversations when he woke, with all his natural acidity and self-possession. Increasingly though, he seemed barely aware of where he was or what was happening, and his bedclothes were drenched in sweat.

Porthos had pulled the sheet from his own bed and put it on Athos' instead, trying to make him more comfortable. Athos was clearly in pain, and while his cough had mercifully eased he still seemed short of breath.

As night fell, the three of them dragged his bed closer to the fire and then settled themselves to sit up and watch, sensing this would be the crisis point. 

They spoke little, each lost in his own thoughts and fears.

"If - " d'Artagnan started at one point, only to fall quiet again, unable to put any of it into words.

After a second, Aramis reached out and silently took his hand. Then felt fingers brush his other hand and looked up to find Porthos reaching out to him in turn. 

Aramis took the offered hand with a nod and for a second they both smiled, a little bleak but still finding strength in each other.

"He'll make it," Porthos whispered. 

'Yes.' Aramis formed the word, but found he was too choked to speak it out loud, and bowed his head.

As the dark hours crawled by they could do little but wait it out, making Athos as comfortable as possible. 

He was murmuring in his sleep, most of it unintelligible, but at times all three picked out their own names from the jumble of half-formed words.

"We're here," Porthos promised him, stroking Athos' damp hair back from his face and clasping his hand, despite knowing Athos probably couldn't hear him. "We won't leave you." _And don't you dare leave us_ , he added silently.

Finally, as the first glimmer of dawn was showing in the east, Athos seemed to pass from a distressed, fitful stupor into a deeper sleep. At first alarmed, once they realised his breath was coming more easily they relaxed a little, hopeful that the worst was past.

"He's definitely not so feverish," Aramis said quietly, pressing the backs of his fingers to Athos' cheek. "Why don't you two get some sleep? I'll keep watch."

Porthos would have protested, but he could see d'Artagnan was exhausted and knew he would refuse to sleep unless someone else did, so he nodded. He could see the sense in it, the more worn out they were, the more likely they'd come down with something themselves, and Athos at least seemed to be out of danger.

"Wake me if you need to," Porthos said, laying a hand on Aramis' shoulder as he got to his feet. "If anything changes, or you need to sleep."

Aramis nodded. "I promise."

He sat and watched the sun rise over the rooftops, gilding the window glass and the worn floorboards with gold. He heard the clatter of a cart in the courtyard below as the place started to come to life and go about its business, and the creak of a winding handle as someone drew up bucket after bucket from the well. 

Something skittered across the roof tiles overhead, a bird or a squirrel, loud in the early morning hush. Automatically glancing up at the ceiling, when Aramis looked down again he found Athos' eyes were open, and smiled at him in surprise.

"Welcome back," Aramis said softly. "You gave us quite the fright." 

Athos tried to speak but it came out as a croak, and Aramis helped him sip some water.

"Thank you," Athos managed, his throat working painfully. "Sorry, have I been a terrible burden?"

Aramis laughed. "Massively. Try not to do it again, at least for a while, eh?"

Athos' lips quirked in a smile. "Next time you can be ill," he murmured. "You're welcome to it."

"How do you feel?"

Athos considered. "Better. Lighter, somehow. I've felt so heavy, like I couldn't move. That's gone. And my headache's gone." His hand shook a little on the covers, and he stilled it with an effort, sighing. "Might be a while before I'm running any races though."

"Well, with any luck you won't be required to." Aramis stifled a yawn, and Athos peered at him.

"You look worse than I feel."

Aramis laughed. "Thanks a bunch. We've been sat up all night due to a certain someone managing to drag himself to death's door and back." He stood up, working the kinks out of his back. 

"Not that I'm not grateful you made it," Aramis added softly, and Athos smiled up at him in surprise as Aramis leaned over and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

Aramis, yawning widely, moved over to Porthos' bed and touched his shoulder. Despite the fact he'd been asleep and snoring, Porthos was awake in an instant and sat up looking worried.

"He's fine," Aramis said quickly. "And awake. But I need to lie down before I fall over." 

Porthos nodded immediately, and Aramis moved on to his own bed and sank thankfully into it.

Porthos wrapped the blanket around himself and came over to occupy Aramis' vacated seat by Athos' bed.

"Not dead then," he observed, as Athos watched him settle. "That's very sensible of you."

"I'd never have heard the last of it," Athos said with a faint smile. "It seemed wisest not to."

Porthos nodded to himself, propping his bare feet up on the side of Athos' bed. Athos draped the corner of his blanket over them, and Porthos grinned his thanks.

"Was I really that bad?" Athos murmured after a while. The fact that Aramis had seen fit to wake Porthos rather than leave him alone suggested his friends had had a more troubling night than he had. At least he didn't remember much of his.

"You had your moments," Porthos rumbled darkly, not particularly wanting to relive those few hours when they'd seriously started to be afraid it might not end well. "Trust you to escape an outbreak of plague only to nearly die from something else. I mean where did you even pick it up?"

Athos shrugged apologetically, although he could tell Porthos was relieved rather than cross, despite his grumbles.

"Plus I suppose you'll be convalescing for weeks, meaning we'll have to pick up all your duties," Porthos continued, getting into his stride. "It's a bloody inconvenience, is what it is." 

Athos drifted off to sleep again with the comforting burble of Porthos' complaining in his ear, and a smile on his lips.

When he opened his eyes again there appeared to be a breakfast party happening around his bed, and a fresh fire was crackling merrily in the grate.

"How did my bed get over here?" Athos asked in confusion, realising for the first time it was in a completely different position from what he remembered.

"You moved it," Porthos told him, straight-faced. "You were getting up to all kinds of weird shit last night." 

"Sleepwalking's a terrible thing," Aramis put in. "The dancing in particular was quite distressing."

"Especially before we could get you to put your nightgown back on," said d'Artagnan.

Athos just lay there and smiled at them, taking the teasing without complaint. The last few days had been incredibly hard on him, not just physically or in the belief he might be about to die, but knowing that he might take his friends with him. Conversely, it had been their presence and constant strength and comfort that had kept him going, and made him determined to fight every step of the way. 

He would never not be grateful for that, and was equally grateful for the knowledge that he didn't need to tell them so. Badly hidden behind teasing and jibes, the same relief was written on everyone's faces.

"So will they let us out soon?" d'Artagnan asked. "I mean - now that Athos is recovering, and it presumably wasn't plague?"

"They may wish to keep us here longer," warned Aramis. "Until everyone has gone a full week without symptoms of anything."

This was met by a chorus of groans. "Let's hope Treville doesn't stop paying for our keep then," said Porthos gloomily. "I don't much fancy going back to the gruel and twigs stage."

"We could always eat you if we get too hard up," Aramis smirked. "There's plenty of you to go around, after all."

Porthos cupped his groin obscenely and waggled his eyebrows.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" Aramis protested, but everyone was laughing now and he gave in and laughed too. "Fine, now I really want to get out of here. We're all going mad." 

\--

In the event, it was only another three days before Lefevre consented to give them their freedom. Athos, while still weak was up and about by then, and as he'd clearly had neither had the plague they'd feared, nor anything particularly virulent as the other three had escaped unscathed, it was decided the four men were really more of a burden than anything else, and they were turfed out before breakfast.

They stood in the street, rather surprised, and a little overwhelmed by the sudden open space and clamour of city life around them. Athos was still wrapped in a blanket over his clothes, and Porthos had slipped an arm around him without being asked, knowing he was still shaky on his feet and offering silent support.

"Now what?" said d'Artagnan, looking round at his companions. Having been locked up with them for days and at times desperate for some peace and privacy, he now found the thought of separating from them, even for a short period, left him feeling unaccountably anxious.

"I need a bath," Porthos declared.

"I need a drink," said Athos, and Porthos snorted. 

"You should go home to bed. In fact, I'm taking you there myself."

"I'm going to see Treville," Aramis told them. "He should be told that we're out, and that Athos is alright. And needs to be thanked, for keeping our body and soul together."

"I'll come with you," d'Artagnan said, and they set off together towards the garrison.

Porthos gave Athos a one-armed hug. "Home then?"

"Can't we go via a tavern?" Athos said hopefully, and Porthos snorted. 

"Don't have any coins on me." He frowned. "Thinking about it those bastards took my moneybelt along with my coat." Porthos half turned back towards the hospital, but Athos pulled him away.

"You won't get it back now," he said. "They'll only claim it went towards our upkeep. Come on, I've got wine at home. And I really don't want to go back in there." He shuddered, only half from the cold, and Porthos realised he was neglecting his duty.

"You're right. Come on." He slung his arm around Athos again and smiled at him. "Glad to be out?"

Athos nodded. "Glad to be alive," he said softly. 

"You and me both." Porthos pulled him into a sudden hug. "You and me both."

They walked on together, arm in arm, and the shadow of the hospital walls gradually fell away behind them.

\--


End file.
